


Something Faithful

by Anonymous



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: College, Friends to Lovers, Future Fic, M/M, Post-Canon, Spring High National Playoffs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-04
Updated: 2016-11-04
Packaged: 2018-08-29 00:31:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8468914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: ex·per·i·mentnoun/ikˈsperəmənt/
  1. a scientific procedure undertaken to make a discovery, test a hypothesis, or demonstrate a known fact.
      • a course of action tentatively adopted without being sure of the eventual outcome.
Daichi’s crush in three stages.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Crollalanza](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crollalanza/gifts).



> @daisugavolleyballweek - Day 2: ~~Soulmate~~ /Experiment

**the discovery.**

The air is fire.

No—it’s him that’s burning. The gym is kept cool, regulated. It’s him that’s on fire, such a disparity with his surroundings that the breaths he takes _burn_ , scraping the back of his throat, flowing thick and hot to curdle in his lungs.

The other team serves and Daichi forces his lava-laden legs to move, diving forward for a receive. It’s not perfect, not with the stiffness in his muscles and exhaustion slowing him down, but it’s enough. He’s not alone in this.

A glimpse of a silvery head from the corners of his eyes. Suga crosses the court, comes to a halt and jumps, hands raised to intercept the ball—and all of them know to run by now, to jump and swing their arm with certainty that they’ll be the one to spike it. It’s what makes them strong, this belief, makes them as swift and unpredictable as the omnivorous crows themselves.

But Daichi catches Suga’s eyes, just for a fleeting second. It might have been a coincidence. It might have been nothing. But he _knows_ , somehow, and scrambles back up to his feet.

The ball fits perfectly on his palm as he slams it down onto the opposite side of the court, a thunderous boom reverberating over shocked silence.

Then—chaos.

Daichi doesn’t get the chance to fully process what’s going on before he’s tackled from all sides. They jostle one another, making him lose his balance only to stumble into another person. The team— _his_ team—huddling close, all semblance of personal space thrown out the doors, their laughter and triumphant shrieks drowning out the spectators’ cheers.

He tumbles down the floor, bringing with him whoever he’s got his grip on, and then the reserve players reach them and launch themselves at the growing pile, too, and down they all go. The bruises on his side throb painfully with every excited push and shove, but he can’t bring himself to do anything but smile. He thinks the salty taste on his lips might have been more than sweat, judging by how he has trouble clearing his vision.

Eventually, they’ll have to stop; wipe off the tears tracks and snots on their faces; face their coaches and opponents, the juries and audiences; hold their heads high like the victors they are. But it’s okay, for now, to just lie here together and catch their breath. They’ve earned it.

When they do get up, when Daichi manages to extract himself from the tangle of limbs, he’s only taken one step before Suga’s there.

The pair of arms that wrap around him are gentle yet unyielding, firm and almost fervent with how they clutch him tight. Suga presses their bodies together, fingers tangled in Daichi’s sticky and soaked jersey, and Daichi can’t help but tense a bit at how this is different. It’s different from the playful hugs Suga gives all the time because one of his hand is holding the back of Daichi’s head and drawing it in to rest on his slender shoulder. It’s different because his other hand grabs at the small of Daichi’s back, and while it might have been to avoid the bruises that got him benched in the fourth set it’s still much lower than usual.

Daichi follows his lead and tucks his chin on the curve between Suga’s shoulder and neck. His senses, numbed with fatigue, are now suddenly on overdrive. He’s aware of every point of contact, of Suga’s shaky breaths on his own skin, causing it to tingle and sending shivers down his spine. Strands of gray hair tickle his cheek, and under the smell of Salonpas and perspiration he recognizes Suga’s scent, too.

He watches the rest of his team: Tanaka’s ruffling the duo’s hair, Yamaguchi chattering animatedly with Tsukishima, Nishinoya climbing on top of Asahi to sit on the ace’s shoulders and pump his fists high in the air, Ennoshita and Narita and Kinoshita supporting each other through crippling exaltation.

He’s not sure what is it that makes him shift his arms up and wind them around Suga’s waist. It’s not simply reciprocating; that would be pats on the back, a squeeze or clap on the shoulder, or cordial teasing. But whether it’s impulsive or from the adrenaline of winning a National match, he learns that it drives his heart to beat faster, more erratic and flustered than ever.

 

**the hypothesis.**

They’re in Daichi room studying for the last of their final exams when Suga asks the question.

He’s lying on his back width-wise on Daichi’s bed, feet dangling over the edge, kicking back and forth as he holds up a textbook above him and tries to read past the shadow it casts. That’s how Daichi last saw him before he sat himself at his desk, legs tucked under him, and started on his own reading material. They tried to concentrate, but like always the silence didn’t last long.

“Hey, Daichi,” Suga says, “where are you going for college?”

Daichi stills his fingers from twiddling his highlighter. He swivels his chair to look at Suga.

Suga’s dropped the book on his chest where it lies upside-down, still open. He’s raised an arm skyward, making grabbing motions at the glare of light from the ceiling lamp. Splays his fingers, squints at the brightness they let pass, flicks at it as he would a stray crumb, and then curls them into a fist, rinse and repeat.

He’s always looking up, Daichi thinks to himself. When he’s in deep thought, after giving advice or encouragement to the underclassmen, during a grueling match—there’s always a slight upward tilt to his chin. It’s not a haughty one, far from it. He merely finds no reason to do otherwise, to gaze down like Asahi tends to do, and it’s become an unconscious response.

Daichi finds himself doing neither. As far as he’s known, he’s always looked at what’s ahead of him.

Suga looks up, considers the future, and thinks of what could be. It’s a nice perspective, but it has also caused him to over-think and worry.

Is Suga worried that they will part ways?

They’ve taken college prep classes together ever since the option became viable, but they’ve never discussed the inevitable tipping point. Even Suga has things he’d rather postpone, and volleyball has given them both the distraction they might not need but seek anyway.

Had, now. Their high school volleyball career was over.

Would they still have been be friends if they hadn’t joined the club? They’re in the same class; it’s a possibility, but Daichi doubts that they could build the dynamic they have now without volleyball bringing them together.

There won’t be volleyball after this, especially not if they go to separate universities.

But Daichi gravitates toward the present, and the present is this: here is Suga, in his room, on his bed. Here they _are_ , together. Three years since they’ve met, almost a thousand days spent seeing each other, by each other’s side, and more than a hundred weekends of staying at one another’s house.

The sight of Suga sprawled on his bed, silvery hair spread out and eyes half-closed, is not that rare of an occurrence, and in training camps they’d been inclined to set their futons side by side, but the fact that this might as well be the last time he sees him this way, the last time they’re together in _his_ room, gnaws at the inside of his chest.

It’s not something he associates with having Suga over, this feeling. But it’s not new.

He’s felt like this before: a churn in his belly, a wild and unfamiliar rhythm pounding against his ribcage, his hands clammy. It’s like back then after that match when Suga’d acted strange and hugged him a little too tight.

That had been pleasant, if a bit unsettling because of the foreignness of it. Now, though, it’s trailed by a sour taste in his mouth, by the turmoil pooling in his stomach that has him biting at his lip and nearly carding his hands through his hair in—what, frustration? Fear? Unrest?

What is it?

Suga props himself up on his elbows, cocks an eyebrow at Daichi’s too-long silence. “Daichi, you okay?”

Daichi’s eyes meet with Suga’s lighter ones. Suga is always the radiant one, all smiles and joy on the outside that mask his mischievous streak. His hair is white to Daichi’s black, his skin pale to Daichi’s tan. He’s the support to Daichi’s earth, the foundation to his ground.

The way his heart stutters as he looks at Suga has him guessing and speculating, but this he knows for sure:

He doesn’t want to see them growing apart.

 

**the demonstration.**

They try. They make do.

It’s a two-hours plus ride by train, and they visit each other every other weekend. Sometimes it’s after wrangling with classes and papers and their personal lives. Sometimes it’s after impromptu decisions that lead them to knock on the other’s door with terrible bed head and rumpled clothes.

Suga comes to Daichi’s matches as often as he can, even the practice ones. He cheers and waves enthusiastically but also yells at Daichi for some grave mistake he makes, when Daichi hesitates for too long or allows his composure to be chipped away too much. It works just as well as it did back in high school.

When a break rolls around sometimes they hole up together in one of their places or plan a trip. They’d amble their way through Suga’s city, Daichi still not getting used to the bustling streets and monstrous skyscrapers while Suga would poke and tease him about it, and there are times when they’d return to Miyagi, to see the places and landmarks Daichi’s discovered in his prolonged stay in their hometown.

It’s on one of these trips that they break into Karasuno’s grounds.

It’s late, well past midnight, as they ascend the stairs of the main building. There’s clearly no one here except for the two of them, but Daichi is careful with his steps, bordering on tip-toes. Suga’s successful in scaring him twice in a row. Not while he’s on the stairs, of course.

“You’re so nervous, Daichi,” Suga remarks, cheeky. “Isn’t this your plan?”

Daichi hefts his backpack higher, turning his flashlight in Suga’s direction, and sends him a blank stare that says, _Are you kidding me, of course it’s because we’re breaking the law_ , and after he finishes his latest bout of laugh Suga asks, “What are we doing here, though?”

Daichi goes back to climbing the stairs, one at a time. “We’re returning to our roots.”

Suga punches him on the arm, jerking the circle of light in front of them to the side. “You’re such a sap.”

_So you don’t forget your home. So we don’t drift apart._

Well, maybe he is a sap.

The door to the rooftop is unlocked, just as it’s always been. Daichi pads toward the spot he’d scouted to have the best view, Suga walking by his side. He crouches down, unzips his backpack, and pulls out a folded blanket.

“Ohh,” Suga drawls, but his smile is bright and his eyes crinkle. He stoops down to help Daichi. “It’s a picnic under the stars? That’s a new low.”

Daichi rolls his eyes and chuckles, flattening the creases on the sheet. “You love it. I know you do.”

“Hmm-mm,” Suga hums as he sits down. He reaches for Daichi’s backpack to peek at its content. “What else have you got here?”

Daichi shrugs. “Not much, really. Some snacks, but we’re here mostly for the view.” He grins, settling down as well and leaning back on his hands. “All that city living and you might forget the real night sky.”

Suga scoots next to him, skin brushing, and they both look up at said sky.

It takes too long. It’s taken too long, but Daichi sidles closer. A centimeter. A millimeter difference, until he feels Suga move his own hand to rest it on top of his, and their fingers entwined.

**Author's Note:**

> For something written in under six hours it's probably not the worst ^^"
> 
> Thank you for reading!
> 
> [tumblr](http://astersandstuffs.tumblr.com/).


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